X. Jones—Of Scotland Yard Read online

  The reason how I, a white man, happened to become member of this Oriental troupe is, for me, a somewhat sad thing to relate. My father, Joel Ezekiah, an orphan of Hobart, Tasmania, and my mother, Greta Ezekiah, half-German by descent and almost fully so as far as bringing up went, were both high trapeze artists. With Cronum and Scalley’s American Circus. She, in fact, was known as Zita the Trapeze Queen. But father was killed by the breaking of a defective trapeze fastening, during a gratuitous showing he and she were giving at Oceanside Park Carnival, Perth, Western Australia—on a trip home to Australia. Mother was badly injured, and never rejoined the Circus, but bought a farm 50 miles in the Bush from Coolgurlie Springs, Western Australia. Where I was born 8 months later. Posthumous, you see, with respect to Joel Ezekiah. But somewhat earlier, while with Cronum and Scalley’s, father had gotten a booking, with them, for Heikichi Yamakura and his troupe—at a time when Heikichi was actually stranded in America and down and out.

  Father had had to literally “sell the act” to a circus proprietor who hated Japs. And succeeded in doing so. And Heikichi had declared eternal gratefulness to him and mother. Anyway, after I became 8 years old, on that farm out in the Bush, mother decided to teach me something—anything—which might subsequently be of utility to me when I should grow up. We had a huge barn with—of all things!—a skylight; and she had a wire stretched in it—low, of course, for safety’s sake—and with always plenty of hay piled beneath it—and by dint of putting me through almost daily workouts, forced me to acquire, at least, wire-balance—the best thing that she was able to do for me. And then, when we removed to New Zealand—I was then nearly 19—and she began to get badly crippled from the effects of that old fall she’d had before I was born, she finally wrote in desperation to Heikichi Yamakura—or “Yam,” as he used to be called in the troupe—asking him if he couldn’t possibly put me in the act. And because of what father had done for him in the long ago, Yam wrote mother that he would make an exception—that he would take me in. And he did, providing me with the birth certificate, and some corroboratory papers thereto, of a certain blood descendant of the Yamakura tribe—a child named Kogo, son of a Japanese girl Sumiko who had married a Polish man in America. And of whom all—father, mother and child—were today dead. For you see, Mr. Jones, Yam was very peculiar about this “blood of Chuso Yamakura” business; never had a non-Yamakura been part of the act, in all the years of its existence. And he made it mighty clear to us that if ever I revealed to anyone—even Treptow himself—that I wasn’t a Jap—rather, a half-Jap—I was out of the act for good. And “pronto”—as they say in the States. And so I was exceedingly careful never to risk my berth. Each time I disembarked from the ship at New Orleans, and got checked in on my Australian passport as Guy Ezekiah—well, I ceased at that very moment to be Guy Ezekiah. The man who would board the train, a brief while later, for Thibodoux Farm—an isolated place in Louisiana owned by Yamakura, where our act was always shaped up preparatory to our starting out with the show near Memphis—was “Kogo Yamakura.” While on tour, I kept my head shaved on top, like Japs. And having always had a touch of some sort of haemolytic jaundice—or else some pancreative disturbance due to my Lilliputianism—no one who ever met me in the States knew that I was in reality an Australian—without even a drop of Oriental blood in me. Much less even Treptow himself, who fortunately was drunk most of the 9 years I knew him. Much less did mother’s and my neighbors, back there in New Zealand, know that I was a performer in an obscure circus in America. For they were given to understand that each year I went to New Orleans to visit a “half-half-uncle.”

  It was Yam who taught me the secrets of wire-walking, and made an expert wire-walker of me. And I hardly need to say, I think, that I hated the life with all my soul. It was crucifixion—nothing less. But—mother and I badly needed the money I could earn. So that was that.

  And it was Cheung—good old Cheung—son of a Japanese woman named Kinnue Yamakura and a Chinese named Cheung Mong Lu—who taught me the fundamentals of juggling. For it was he, as you will see by the Captain Billy Barclay write-up pasted to one of the foregoing sheets, who did the juggling feature of the act—right while on the wire, you understand. And which invaluable instruction was the thing that gave me the impetus, when I read, there in New Zealand on the morning of March 7, 1931, of the destruction of all Hachijo Island, including all the Yamakuras, to strike forth at last—in a new field, in a new world. For my mother, you see, was now gone—dead, then, slightly more than one full month. And so, after a year’s tough practice there at home on the farm, while, in fact, it was being foreclosed, I sallied forth with my new “profession”—and I was none too perfect, either, I assure you—and Isenkind and Levinthal of Melbourne took me on—and cut my throat at the same time.

  But, Mr. Jones, I realize now that, having been a wire-walker, I am in a bad spot! For the minute this German left my hotel room, I got out the story of Marceau’s murder, which appeared in American papers last November—at least I clipped my copy thereof from a San Francisco paper which I bought last December in a magazine store on Chowringhee Road, Calcutta—and I endeavored to see whether they were imbecilically trying to make a wire-walking job out of that murder. That is, I transferred the terminals of the Lilliputian footprint trails, as found in the trail map, to the map of the Marceau grounds, by co-ordinates and a dividers and a draughtsman’s scale I obtained from a draughtsman living in the hotel; and—God help me!—I found that the point where that murderer came on the lawn—and then went off—lay exactly on a line connecting the anchor barb described as protruding from the northeast angle of Marceau’s garage—to the huge left window-box bracket, actually shown on the map. A possible stretched wire! Gotten or drawn across those points—unknown to Marceau that night. And at once everything became clear to me.

  My belief, Mr. Jones, is that this outfit has traced me through having dug up some piece of paper, or perhaps undestroyed envelope, back in the old house which I occupied in New Zealand for so many years—at least in the winter (American winter) months. Possibly just an envelope that carried one of the communications that Heikichi Yamakura, in Japan, was accustomed to send me, telling me to start for New Orleans, by such and such a date, for the annual month’s shape-up of the act. And of course, in investigating Yamakura, they have found that he was manager and owner of a wire-walking troupe—and that a juggler, Cheung, was in the troupe—and a Lilliputian named Kogo. And by subsequent inquiries made from—well—perhaps mother’s and my nearest neighbor, have found that visits I made to my “half-half-uncle” in New Orleans synchronize almost perfectly with the movements of the act—or at least the show in which it always played—in America.

  Last but not least, as you will see from that clipping pasted to the sheet preceding this sheet by several pages, I have six toes on each foot, Mr. Jones—the extra toe almost embryonic, to be sure—just practically a bud, sprouting out between my true little toe and the one adjoining it—but it is enough to identify me in a minute, if and when they get ready to do so, as Kogo Yamakura. The information from which that voluminous entry for Captain Billy Barclay’s Jumbo Issue of his Guide was compiled, was furnished to him, via mail, by Yamakura himself—without even consulting me. Though fortunately it does not exist in any other of the various trade or professional catalogues or indexes—at least not so far as I know—not that I haven’t been careless at times in giving interviews to reporters and others in the profession, while clad in nothing but bathrobe and sandals.

  But anyway, the situation is this, Mr. Jones:

  I have no alibi for the date of that murder. I was undercover, in Fritz’ walled-in house, all that time. There is absolutely no living person who is able to provide me with an alibi.

  If they attempt to rivet this crime on me, Mr. Jones—is there some reason to believe that they will be able to convict me on the circumstantial evidence of my being a wire-walker—plus my having no alibi whatsoever? Just exactly what, under the circumstances,
should I do? It is so easy, so easy, for you to say that I should voluntarily come forward—and tell the truth, and all; but don’t forget that I am not in England! Moreover, I have been in America—as Kogo Yamakura, of course—in the toughest parts of America’s South—and twice in my life I personally saw a terrible example of the so-called “Third degree.” Once on a Negro, and once on a white man. Here, in Europe, they perhaps don’t handle suspects quite as bad as they do over in America—but, on the other hand, they don’t handle them either, as you do there in England. And if by bad luck I let myself get into the hands of this outfit that is working towards me!—well, I am convinced that some American is back of that German—and he himself, I must perforce say, looks like a plenty-enough calloused individual who would stop at absolutely nothing.

  Please, please advise me—for, according to that story in that American paper, you have put yourself definitely on record as able to strip completely from the Marceau Mystery the entire veil that has hidden it—and to reveal the person guilty of Marceau’s death. And if this is true, Mr. Jones—and you are able to do this—then you, of all persons in the world, know that it was not I.

  I shall be here, quite naturally, till the 15th—after which I am supposed to go to Berlin—to arrive there at least by the morning of the 17th. In fact, I already have booked accommodations there, by wire, at the Hotel Breslau. Now, indeed, I do not know what to do. Please advise me. And I will be eternally grateful to you.

  Sincerely—and in great distress,

  Guy L. Ezekiah.

  DOCUMENT XCIII

  Letter, of date February 11, 1937, from Service Parisien des Rag­nures, Paris, France, to X. Jones, London, England.

  Dear Mr. Jones:

  The private collector referred to in our letter of January 20 returned to Paris on February 8, exactly as we had anticipated he would, and we therefore commenced, immediately upon his arrival, a search of the old French scandal sheet about which you had made inquiry, and for which search you were so kind as to remit in advance.

  We are glad to say that we have been fortunate in unearthing a single item in re the family name “Marceau” appearing in Nouvelles Piquantes (Spicy News) within the range of time specified by you, i.e., June 12, 1838, to December 3, 1841, inclusive. This item appeared in the issue of May 23, 1841. We did not, of course, in view of your specifications, institute search for items prior to nor past the range of dates originally given us by you.

  The single item we found was, of course, in the column “Par Le Trou de Serrure” (“Via Keyhole”) described in our previous letter; and it was identified as being in line with your requirements because of its marginal notations written in faded but still readable ink, and with lines drawn from each notation directly to the specific person to whom veiled reference is made in the item. As has been said before, none of these nomenclatural notations bear question marks, and it may safely be assumed that their maker, and the conductor of the column, “Gaston DuMar” were one and the same person; and that these copies of Nouvelles Piquantes, of which they are such a significant part, constitute his personal files of his own published material. For it is hardly conceivable, we have concluded, upon closer inspection of these old cloth pages, that any single mere reader of Nouvelles Piquantes could know everyone mentioned in every single column!

  We enclose you herewith a more or less idiomatic—yet exact—translation, into English, of this item, typed in narrower measure than is usually our custom in providing translations of news stories, but it will be seen that we have typed it in that manner in order that we might delineate, in ink, the very guide lines which appear in the printed French version, and which run from the parties alluded to in it to the marginally handwritten names which, in our translation here, we have typed in in italics. It is a very fair replica—done in English, and in typewriting—of the French and, of course, printed item.

  Our impression—in case you do not object to our comments upon the matter!—is that the facts in the item in question must have been furnished to “Gaston DuMar,” for a few francs, by the discharged housemaid (mentioned specifically in one of the marginal notations) who evidently overheard the “storm,” or violent quarrel, alluded to in it. And who was perhaps discharged for no other reason than that she had overheard it. Though, had she not already received her congé, she most undoubtedly would have, we take it, after the item enclosed appeared! You will note, incidentally, that it refers to a Declaration of Intent to Divorce having actually been filed. Even though it also emphasizes, at the same time, that the “disagreement” was patched up to the extent at least that no divorce was to be gone through with, nor secured. You will be interested, Mr. Jones, to know that, even in those days, it was often customary in France to submit evidence in a mere Declaration of Intent. Since the divorce records for the City of Paris—even to the original dossiers—at least, that is, for the year 1841—are today available in the “Archives des Divorces” Division of the Section of Historical Documents, Bureau of Early Paris History, we took occasion to see, on your behalf, whether the dossier for this “Intention” was on file. It was, and it contained, outside of its single Declaration of Intent, which conveyed no charges and named no parties, a single photograph of the wife in question, which was tabulated by the filing clerk of that day on its back, as to the identity of its sitter, as “‘Henriette de Fontnouvelle’ Marceau, femme (wife) et la Défenderesse” (the defendant) in re Aristide Marceau, aetat 29, 7 Rue des Jardins “vs. Henriette Marceau.” Through the Clerc des Archives in the Bureau of Early Paris History we were able to obtain a photographic copy of this old photo, which we are happy to enclose, without further charges, since our 1000 francs component of the fee you remitted covers any additional cross-references (if easily findable) to any “mentions” in newspapers.

  If we can be of further assistance in any way in the compilation of this Marceau biography, do not hesitate to command us.

  Believe us to be, most sincerely,

  Service Parisien des Rognures

  per L. Bartholemy.

  DOCUMENT XCIV

  Photograph of photograph filed with Declaration of Intent No. 9267, Anno Domini 1841, Archives des Divorces, Section of Historical Documents, Bureau of Early Paris History, Paris, France, representing one “Henriette de Fontnouvelle Marceau, wife of Aristide Marceau.”

  DOCUMENT XCV

  Translation of item appearing May 3, 1841, in the column entitled “Par Le Trou de Serrure” of the newspaper “Nouvelles Piquantes” issued at Paris, France—as found in special file owned by Paris collector—showing pen-and-ink emendations consisting of guide lines run­ning from persons referred to in the item, to actual hand-written names (shown in italics) on the margin.

  DOCUMENT XCVI

  Registered letter of date February 14, 1937, from Scutters Jones, Director of the International Criminological Data Service, of New York, Chicago, Dallas and San Francisco, Home Office Monadnock Building, Chicago, to Howard Fielding, Washington Representative of the I.C.D.S., home residence 1673 Columbia Road, Washington, D.C.

  Dear Howard:

  Everything, I would say, is now beautifully set, at our end, for our proposed commemoration of the 50th Anniversary of the I.C.D.S.

  X has, of course, already left Scotland Yard, though more or less quietly; for even though the Marceau Case is not an official Scotland Yard case, he feels that, were he still there, there would be an ethical factor involved in the manner in which it is proposed to use his analysis. He prefers, in fact, to be entirely without official connections of all sorts when it is released. And incidentally, Howard, you may be surprised to learn that I have prevailed upon him to come on here to Chicago next month, and to remain with us for at least a year. A fact! He avers, of course, that since he has found the British climate too unfriendly to him after his life in India, necessitating his returning to Bombay, there is no reason to believe that he won’t find the climate here in this London-of-the-West just as unfriendly as in the real London. (All
of which, of course, is true.) But I’ve been so anxious to get him here, for at least the duration of that one year, that I’ve soft-pedaled completely on the eternal biting dampness of the lake—not to mention some of those 30-below-zero winter winds off the Minnesota prairies that will probably make him buy a ticket for India the first time one hits him!

  But now about our commemorative clearance report!

  Nothing whatsoever has leaked, I am sure, as to our being connected with the release date given by X abroad, for newspapers in general. And no one, furthermore—at least so far as I know—knows of my relationship to Traherne Jones; and with that fact buried—well—Joneses are more plentiful in this country than ragweed spores in September. Again, though X and I have cabled back and forth considerably, we’ve invariably done so in code, with the cablegrams from him addressed at my end in such a way that my neighbors here on Diversey Boulevard, whose bells are now and then rung by telegraph boys going up the wrong steps by mistake, are commencing to wonder who the devil is this “C. Chelsing Satterlee” who apparently lives at my number—and when does he show himself! In connection with which cabling let me also remark that, because of it, the prospective analysis grows every bit by bit from its original intended size—though X growls continuously, in his occasional letters to me, that he can’t get truly to the bottom of the Marceau Case—as he would really like to, for a report that is to have a double function as this one is to have, i.e., commemoration of a business firm’s 50 years of operation—and widespread newspaper release to boot! And while I am on the subject of the foregoing, Howard, let me say that the specific bit of information you were able to get for me yesterday at the Archives Division of the United States Bureau of Passports—the info, I mean, concerning the Chinese matter!—was for X. I cabled it straight to him, and it evidently pleased him mightily since his own punctuated cable of acknowledgment to me read: “Thanks—thrice thanks!”